The book that walked along

People sometimes ask how a book is written. I can only speak for myself: it walks alongside you.

One winter I sat down and tried to write — it didn’t come. The next spring I stopped trying, and the lines began to arrive on their own — while walking, while making dinner, while listening to a friend’s story.

I think it’s the same with many things. We wait until we will do. And sometimes, they’re waiting for us to simply be.